


Workaholic

by emilytheoverlord



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, M/M, Rivalry, Sickfic, like theres some madison/jefferson, multishipping kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilytheoverlord/pseuds/emilytheoverlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obligatory "TJeff + Hams in a cabinet battle when someone shows up to work sick" fic, in which they don't actually hate each other as much as they probably should. Sass and caretaking ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting Dismissed

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is my first story on this site, so excuse me as I get used to how AO3 works. Let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions! Thanks.

Alexander’s hands were shaking as he hastily scribbled some last minute notes into his speech. He was not only cold— freezing, actually, but that was his fault for not wearing the jacket Eliza always tells him to take —he was also nervous, stomach knotted tightly with anxiety over having to face Jefferson in front of Congress today.

Jefferson was… healthy. No— that was an understatement; he was practically the poster boy for a radiant, handsome Southern farmer, as though he’d had sunlight injected straight into his veins, replacing blood. He was always grinning like he’d just been given fifty bucks and a free pass to tear Alexander (the poster boy for a sleep-deprived New Yorker) to shreds.

 _Jefferson_ was tall, collected, over-confident— everything Alexander was lacking right now, with half a voice and a fever over a hundred degrees. He coughed into his wrist, still scribbling away at his notes.  

Washington touched his shoulder. “Son, should you be here right now?”

Alexander’s heart practically stopped at that. “… Mr. President, you don’t—”

“I understand—” he interrupted, stealing the word out of his mouth, “just don’t do anything dangerous, Alexander. Your health isn’t worth any bill passing.” His face was stern, but it didn’t look like he was about to send him home. There was a knowing quality about his expression, like he understood the motivation behind pushing oneself.

“… I beg to differ, Sir,” he said quietly enough to not be heard as Washington returned to his seat.

* * *

 Washington calling the meeting into order and Jefferson’s argument went in one ear and out the other; as hard as Alexander tried to concentrate, he couldn’t get his mind to focus with his fever. He was feeling dizzy as he got up to deliver his side, the noise in the room ringing in his ears. His skin was flushed, with embarrassment or with a temperature, he couldn’t tell.

Jefferson leaned over to Madison, expression dampening just a little. “Kid looks awful,” he said, grimacing before a single word even left Alexander’s mouth. He looked at him a second longer, scrutinizing his opponent. “Scratch that, _worse_ than awful.”

Madison nodded in full agreement, drumming his fingers on the table. “This is great. He can hardly hold himself together, let alone a cohesive argument.”

Jefferson winced a little. “Yeah… I _guess?_ Still, I hate seeing the guy so miserable. Look at that face. He looks like a kicked pup. Aww.”

Madison sighed and shot him a look as he watched Alexander straighten out his notes and his shirt collar, visibly uncomfortable. “In reality, someone should have stopped him by now, but it would do well for us if he makes a fool of himself…”

* * *

 Alexander started off strong (well, relatively), but two minutes into his counterargument and his voice was giving out. He cleared his throat for the tenth time, sweating now, uneasy under the gaze of so many people. “G-Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me—” he stammered out, turning away to cough into his sleeve.

Washington’s lips were pressed into a tight frown, like he was on the verge of telling him to go home. Alex was… _managing,_ sure, but it was half the argument he could’ve made if he was well, and his voice was just painful to listen to at this point. He took a breath and opened his mouth to interrupt him, but someone else spoke first.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Cue a long, irritated sigh.

Alexander frowned, caught off guard. “Uh—”

“Go home, Hamilton,” Jefferson said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ugh. You can do so much better than this. It’s sweet how far you’ll push yourself just to try and prove me wrong, like, don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate it… but maybe this is getting to be a little much. Don’t worry, I’ll give you as much attention as you want when you’re well again.” He winked.

Alexander closed his hand into a fist, blindly offended and ready to go off on him, when Washington stood, silencing the room.

“He’s right, Alex. Your point can wait one day if it means you’ll actually allow yourself some rest.” His voice always seemed to be the deciding factor in the meeting hall, possessing such a weight that no one could seem to disagree.

Murmurs filled the room either pitying Alexander or criticizing him, but the general consensus was that he needed to go home.

He swallowed and nodded— ashamed, definitely, but mainly feeling faint. He used his desk to support himself as he packed his things, but the noise in the room was growing a little muddled and hard to make out. He tried to convince himself it was just his nerves getting to him, but the room was swaying dangerously.

Well, shit. He was really out of options here. He eyed Washington, blinking. He couldn’t ask the President for help walking home in front of a room full of the entire Congressional committee, and anyway, he didn’t want to rely on Washington any more than he already did.

He stepped away from his desk, trying to think of some closing statement to deliver before getting the fuck out of there, but his mouth felt dry and his head was spinning. “Th— Thank you for your attention,” he mumbled, before turning for the door.

Jefferson was dying, drowning in secondhand embarrassment.

“Shit. He’s at least five times more pathetic _now_ than he was a minute ago,” he muttered under his breath, everything about his expression reading “yikes.”

Madison blinked. “Wasn’t that intentional…?”

Jefferson sighed and stood. “Mr. President, sir, could I request that we dismiss today’s meeting and reconvene tomorrow? I mean— _honestly,_ who even had half a chance of refuting my argument besides Alexander? There’s not much work to do when the most irritating guy here is sent home.”

Washington furrowed his brow. “Yes— it’s always advisable to have two opposing forces at these meetings rather than having one voice overshadow the other. We’ll be in session tomorrow.”

* * *

 Alexander took a breath outside the meeting room, closing his eyes and leaning against the building in an inconspicuous place. He was relieved the meeting had ended early, though he knew Jefferson was just doing it to embarrass him.

He tried to think. With Eliza gone on vacation, there would be no one at home to keep him in check, but maybe that was for the best. He desperately needed to make up for screwing up so royally, and without Eliza there, he could get twice or three times as much done…

“You’re thinking of work again. It’s been two minutes. If only your arguments were as solid as your work ethic.”

Jefferson was standing before him, straight, tall, and perfect, arms crossed with infinite nonchalance.

“Go home. Meeting’s over,” Alexander managed.

“Haha, look who’s talking. Cute,” he teased, pulling his handkerchief from his shirt pocket and using it to wipe some of the sweat off of Alexander’s forehead. “It’s actually miracle you haven’t passed out.”

“What are you doing this for? You’ve already humiliated me in front of everyone,” he breathed, losing his will to fight Thomas. “Just go. I— I need a second…”

Thomas rolled his eyes in a bit of an exaggerated motion. “You’re being dense. Do you really think I’d waste my breath fighting you in your current state? I did you a favor— one that you’d never do yourself, mind you. Now I’m beginning to wish I’d let you faint in front of Congress.”

“What?” Alexander’s head was spinning too much to make sense of what Jefferson was saying. A favor? What the hell was the favor here? He was about to spit some insults, but there was dimness creeping in at the edges of his sight. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep himself upright…


	2. Civil Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so in order for some of the dialogue in this chapter to make sense, I should probably mention the fact that historically, Tjeffs and Angelica frequently corresponded with one another while she lived in England and were pretty dang flirty with one another. (Angelica /wasn't/ actually desperately, unequivocally in love with Alexander? An intelligent female character who's flirtatious as well? Gasp!)* Anyway, just keep that in mind towards the end! Enjoy. 
> 
> * - I'm sorry I'm being bitter and sarcastic, oops. I love Angelica, okay?

Alexander woke up in a bed too nice to be his own. A shirt too comfortable to be his own. A house too warm and sunny to be his own… Oh.

_Wait, what?_

“About time you got up. I honestly didn’t know it was possible for you to shut up that long. It was kind of nice,” Jefferson said, sounding bored. He was sipping tea as though this was something entirely normal, in no rush to explain anything. “Oh, and in case you’re wondering… I’m not the one who changed your shirt. Maybe next time, though.”

“… What?”

“You were practically cooking in your own skin, what with the fever and all. I had one of the house servants put you in something lighter.” He gestured to the folded pile of Alex’s original clothes. “And you’re _welcome_. Gosh, you northerners. Getting ‘thank you’s out of you guys is like pulling teeth.”

“Uh— thank you…?” He was still trying to wake his brain up from being passed out, but all of this felt more like a fever dream than reality. His skull felt too weighed down with congestion and headache to properly analyze his surroundings. “Is this— don’t tell me… this is yours?” He touched the shirt he was wearing a little, suddenly feeling compelled to strip himself out of it.

“Well, it’s not my wife’s. Try not to look so disgusted. You’re welcome to change back into your sweat-soaked attire any time you like,” Thomas said between sips of tea. “Oh yeah, you need to drink something— here—” He pushed a separate cup of tea into his hands. “It’ll be good for your throat, which needs all the help it can get. Lord knows you never stop talking.”

Alexander huffed a little, then scowled, tempted to spit in it. “As if I’d drink anything made by a slave.”

“Ah, how kind of you to assume I don’t know how to brew tea!” Thomas said quickly, sounding irritated. He sighed a little. “You’re… testing my generosity, Alexander. Just— shut up. I challenge you to let me enjoy your company for _five minutes_ before you open your mouth again.”

Alexander took a breath, ready to respond, then thought for a moment and held his tongue. It was hard to talk back with a voice thinner than paper and a fraction of the articulation and wit he normally possessed.

He blinked at the small cup in his hands. He didn’t really believe that Thomas would go to the effort of preparing him tea, but it wasn’t like him to make up a lie about something so insignificant— _especially_ a lie for Alexander’s sake; therefore, he concluded, it was probably the truth. Why he would do it, though, he had no idea.

He hesitantly drank some, but as soon as he’d taken one sip, he realized how dehydrated he was and downed the rest quickly, enjoying how it soothed his throat.  He set the cup down on the nightstand, then tried to prematurely force himself to sit up since he didn’t like having Thomas look down on him while they spoke.

“So quick to chug down your tea and get back up. New Yorkers really are always in a rush, huh? You can afford to lie down and relax for like, a second. Contrary to what you may believe, it’s not gonna kill you, Alex.” He took a pot off the nightstand and refilled his cup with another serving of tea. “Don’t inhale that one, ‘kay?”

Alexander shrunk a bit, not as eager to offend or disobey him since Thomas actually _was_ doing him a favor by taking care of him— kind of. Granted, it wasn’t something he asked for or wanted, but he still wasn’t about to throw a fit over it. This was better than he could or would do for himself (especially without Eliza at home), and he knew that. Still, he hated how patronizing his taunts were.

He coughed awkwardly, sipped at the tea like a gentleman, then finally spoke despite having been told not to. “Uh, Thomas, I can’t—”

“What, breathe? Yeah, I can tell,” he interrupted him quickly, taking out his handkerchief from his pocket and shoving it into his hands. “You sound more full of shit than you usually do. Blow your nose, I don’t wanna have to tell you twice.”

“… I can’t do it if you’re here,” he said quickly, looking down.

Oh. Tomcat New Yorker gets cuter when he’s bashful, apparently.

“Alex, do you actually think I give a shit?” He sighed like he was annoyed, but he was grinning, enjoying how small Alexander seemed. “You’ve never been embarrassed to do anything in front of me— or anyone else, for that matter —in your life. Don’t let this be the first thing.”

“It’s just plain rude,” he protested weakly, sniffling self-consciously and using the handkerchief to wipe at his face a little.

“Something you have a lot of experience being. Trust me, I’ve heard people blow their noses before, and it’s not really all that special.”

They looked at one another for a moment, a bit too long, then Alexander ducked his head away and blew his nose into the handkerchief, trying to be quiet about it. He did feel a little better, but grimaced thinking about the fact that Thomas’ handkerchief was now… probably his handkerchief.

“You uh, might not want this back—” he started, sounding embarrassed. Being sick in front of Jefferson was torture. “I’ll replace it for you as soon as I get the chance.”

“I don't care, consider it a gift. You’re acting like that's the only one I own,” he laughed, sounding gentler now than before. Then he surprised Alexander and stood, setting his cup of tea down and touching his forehead.

That shut him up pretty quickly; Alex’s eyes shot up, suddenly a hundred times more alert despite the fever. Thomas’ fingers were cool against him— cold, almost —which was alarming since everything about Thomas was supposed to feel warm. Being the genius that he was, Alexander took this as cause to worry.

“You— you’re cold.” He was speaking fast, thinking slow. Not the best combination. “… Are you okay?”

“Uhh, I think I’m doing pretty fine over here. Consider this: you're burning up, maybe? Didya somehow forget that you're the sick one, not me?” He pushed a stray strand of hair away from Alexander’s eyes and tucked it behind his ear, then smiled. “I appreciate the concern, though. That was cute.”

Alexander huffed. “I was just a bit surprised, that's it. You shouldn't touch people without warning them first,” he said with narrowed eyes, but his expression was somehow a little softer now than before.

“Yeah, yeah, okay. God forbid you worry about me for a second,” Thomas dismissed him with a smile, then turned to leave. “Your fever seems high, though, and by now I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna go down on its own. I’ll be back with medicine, but in the meantime, you should sleep.”

“Wait— Thomas,” he said, stopping him from leaving. He took a breath and finally asked what had been bugging him the whole time. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what.”

“… You know exactly what I’m asking, you just want to hear me articulate it.”

“What? _Me?_ I’ve got no clue.”

“You’re such a pain. I just mean— I can take care of myself—”

“Yeeeah, I doubt it. But go on?”

“… —and you hate my guts, so why are you going so far out of your way to take care of me? I’m not ungrateful, nor am I complaining, but you can't fault me for being suspicious.”

“Actually, I can and I will fault you for that— but if you really must know, Alexander, you kind of _did_ pass out right in front of me, mid-conversation, in front of the meeting hall. Who knows, maybe it's a Southern courtesy thing, but I wasn't totally comfortable just leaving you there.”

There was something he was hiding behind his words, but it was hard for Alexander to pinpoint it.

“You could’ve just taken me home, or gotten Washington, or my wife,” he argued, pushing Thomas to talk more, “so you still haven't answered my question. Why keep me here?”

“Seriously? You know Washington would probably accuse _me_ of knocking you out if I dragged your ass back to him—”

“He wouldn’t have!”

“Says daddy’s favorite kiddo. Anyway, that exchange was one I was _not_ interested in having with the President.” He scoffed a little, much to Alexander’s chagrin. “And Eliza’s out of town; are you so feverish you forgot your wife hasn't been around?”

“How did you hear about that?” Alexander felt a bit of unease set in, feeling like Jefferson was intent on having the upperhand in every conversation they had. His tone became increasingly defensive. “Eliza never mentioned speaking to you, and even if she did, I doubt it would have been about our family’s vacation plans.”

“It’s cute how you say ‘our’ as though you were planning on going. Heheh, sorry about your ruined summer, that one’s kinda on me. But since you’re oh-so-curious, I’ll have you know that I haven’t spoken a word to Eliza recently— it was actually an in-law of yours, if I recall correctly…” He grinned widely. “Angelica told me all about it, the lake and everything, sounds like a dream…”

“Angeli— _what?_ ”

“Ohh, wouldya look at the time! Dang, I’ve gotta run into town to find you some medicine! Talk to ya later, Alex. Get some rest.” He waved and hurried himself out of the room with a painfully smug expression, leaving Alexander witless and a bit dumbfounded.

“Angelica,” he repeated under his breath, crossing his arms and fuming to himself. “What the hell is he doing talking to Angelica?”


	3. Medicine Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This one's a little short, but hopefully how cute it is will make up for that. I'll try to update again sometime this weekend! 
> 
> Also, for this chapter, just do me a favor and pretend healthcare in the 1800's didn't suck. I know realistically they didn't know a thing about disease and whatever medicine did exist was probably more likely to kill you than to help you, but I'm gonna pull the "artistic license" card on this one, haha. Anyway, enjoy and as always, let me know what you thought!

Without meaning to, Alexander eventually fell asleep. To turbulent, jealous thoughts of his sister-in-law and his most irritating colleague consorting privately with one another, sure— but still, it didn’t take long for fever and exhaustion to dim his anger to nothing more than a small, indignant huff as he drifted off. 

His sleep quickly became restless, blankets feeling suffocating against his body, everything hot and damp and sticky. He kicked them off into a formless heap on the floor of Jefferson’s guest room which provided him with relief for a moment, but as the sweat evaporated off of his skin, he felt an equally uncomfortable chill.

When Thomas returned a few hours later, arms full of a too-big tray piled with too much stuff, Alexander was curled into himself on the bed, shivering in his sleep, expression twisted into an agitated wince. 

Thomas frowned at this, his footsteps delicate and quiet on the wood floors. 

He set the tray down on top of the nightstand, then grabbed the blanket and replaced it over Alexander’s shaking frame. He touched his forehead again and used his sleeve to wipe away some of the sweat, a little uneased by the warmth radiating off of his sickly visage. Was it this bad when he was awake a few hours ago? Didn’t they just get done fighting about something? Where was all that energy?

“Alexander,” he urged him to wake up, not eager to disturb him, but anxious about getting medicine into him. His voice was uncharacteristically serious-sounding, knowing that Alexander probably wouldn’t register his tone at the moment. “Alexander, you’ve been sleeping long enough. You can go right back, I just need you to take medicine and drink something.”

There was no response other than a small, irritated exhale, like he was about to shoot back with some jab at Thomas or complain about being woken up. A few slow moments passed, but Alexander still wasn’t talking.

“Hey.” He shook him a little, almost tempted to enjoy the feel of Alexander’s small frame in his hands, but trying not to think about it. “Your fever’s bad. Get up.” 

Alexander grumbled something incoherent, eyes opening slightly so they were half-lidded. He was very obviously disoriented, barely holding a thought down, let alone recognizing where he was and who he was with. He didn’t feel present enough to speak, blinking twice and coughing weakly instead. 

Thomas backed away from him a little, waiting for consciousness to settle back into Alexander’s expression before he spoke any more.

He was mostly awake at this point, but he felt thirteen, ill and alone, heart beating fast in his achy chest. A few hazy memories and incomplete ideas washed over him, but all of them felt wrong and unreal. This feeling, however, was familiar to him; he did know what fever felt like, but it was hard to shake himself out of the mind fog.

“Mom,” he mouthed, knowing that she wasn’t there because she was dead, but saying it anyway. Someone was just talking to him, though. He needed to respond to them before they became impatient with him. “… Washington— John— Eliza—” He guessed the only people who’d ever taken care of him in his life, blindly cycling through their names, struggling to remember the voice of the person who woke him.

“Keep guessing,” Thomas muttered under his breath, a tinge of humor in his voice underneath the worry. He slowed the pace of his speech so it would be easier to understand. “You’re confused, Alexander. Think about things for a second and then tell me where you are. Try to remember.”

There was nothing more foreign, more jarring to Alexander than the sound of Thomas Jefferson’s voice in the middle of a feverish delirium. And what was he even talking about? Maybe this was a dream about work, reliving a memory of some meeting they’d had? But he felt awake, he was awake; at least, he thought so… Then why on earth would Jefferson be there? 

“Jefferson?” he finally said, though it came out sounding too much like a question. He wanted to ask so much, but couldn’t force the words together in his mind. Why was he there? Why were they alone together? Where even were they? His brow was furrowed, conflicted as he tried to remember what was going on. 

“Bingo. Though, I’m a little disappointed that I’ve been demoted back down to a last name basis with you. I thought you were warming up to me.” He sighed, feigning sadness to taunt him, but reached forward to fix his hair affectionately. “Is everything coming back, or no?”

Alexander coughed, chest aching with the effort. He took a moment to mentally assess his body; he was thirsty above all else, his throat and chest hurt like hell, his body felt like he’d been run over by a carriage pulled by two horses. 

He paused a long time before speaking.

“K… kind of,” he said, sniffling and using his sleeve to wipe his nose. “It’s hard to— to think.” His mind was working at a painfully slow pace as he reevaluated his surroundings, trying to piece together the fuzzy lines of a conversation that took place hours before but felt like days ago.

“Hm, not very out of the ordinary for you.” This earned him a dirty look from Alexander, which was slightly reassuring. “Alright, alright. I literally feel like you’re going to die if I don’t shove this medicine down your throat, though, so sit the fuck up.” Harsh words, but his actions were tender; he carefully pulled Alexander into a sitting position by the shoulders, resting him against the headboard. 

Alexander fell quiet for a long time, staring up at Thomas with a faintly concerned look about him. “… Do you actually think I’ll die?”

“What? No, I wish,” he responded dismissively, but compulsively checked Alexander’s temperature for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He maintained a bit of a stony demeanor, not wanting to come off anxious to Alexander. “Just—” He grabbed a labelless brown bottle off the tray he had brought in and poured out some syrupy looking liquid onto a spoon. “—drink this. It’s from the doctor in town.”

Alexander wrinkled his nose in disgust, sinking himself down into the bed to get away from Thomas’ spoon.

“You’re being a child. Ugh, why am I doing this,” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If you don’t eat this voluntarily, I’ll just put it in your mouth and hold it closed. The quicker you get better…”  _ The less I have to worry about your damn irresponsible ass.  _ “… the quicker I can send you home and be done with you.” 

Alexander normally would have challenged that threat, but his limbs were too achy and voice too raw for him to muster half a fight. He held his mouth open and ate off the spoon obediently, though his expression was sour the entire time. He shuddered a little and dragged his sleeve across his mouth. “… So gross…”

“Well, you’re done with it now, so you can stop whining. And stop using your sleeve to wipe your face, it’s practically barbaric.” He pulled a fresh handkerchief from his shirt pocket and held it to Alexander’s face, wiping it for him without thinking. Once he realized how upsettingly used to taking care of Alexander he was, he dropped the square of cloth onto his chest. “You should blow your nose again, you sound ridiculous.”

“… Then I’d be taking  _ two  _ handkerchiefs from you,” he murmured, words quiet and slurred, so unlike his usual style of speech that Thomas didn’t even need to check his forehead for the fever at this point. 

Rather than bite back with something condescending, Thomas just settled for a deep sigh. “It’s fine; you promised to replace them. Don’t worry about it.”


	4. Silly Banter and Food

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I took a long break on this. Sorry, lol. 
> 
> But I'm back! I'm gonna try and finish this one, maybe? I have a couple more cute things planned, anyway, so hopefully I have the attention span to write all of it. I've read all of the comments you guys left and you're all super sweet! I don't think I'm gonna reply to all of them because some of them are super old... rip. 
> 
> But consider this my reply to anyone who's stuck with this fic this long and/or commented anything: thank you so much for everything! Hopefully this silly chapter doesn't disappoint. Also, if anyone has any drabble requests for other musicals (currently I'm kinda into Hamilton, DEH, BMC, Heathers, Wicked??) you can leave me a comment or something. I might get it done just so I have some more stuff on this account? Thanks for reading the notes, if you got this far! You've all been great.
> 
> (Also, something happens at the end that doesn't really make sense but it leads into the next chapter! It's gonna be fun.)

It took Alexander a good few hours to return to coherency, and though he was still a little groggy and slow, Thomas was feeling infinitely relieved at being able to hold a conversation with him.

“… No, there's no way that happened,” Alexander said, a grin on the edge of his lips, “You’re lying. It’s written all over your face. Your stupid, smug face.”

“Oh yeah, and I’m sure you remember it _so_ much better. Why don't you tell me what happened, then? Let’s pick up at the part right before you, oh, I dunno… fainted right outside Congress?” The attitude in his voice was so thick you could taste it.

“There’s no way I begged for help. On my knees? No. No way.” Alexander’s brow furrowed. Begging wasn't his style— and begging Thomas? Not if his life depended on it. He tried hard to remember how the conversation went, racking his fevered mind for any bits and pieces he could recall, but everything felt fuzzy. “Just— just tell me what happened, seriously. I just remember Washington dismissing the meeting… then…”

“You were all, ‘Thomas, please, I need your help!’ and being the considerate Southern gentleman that I am, I decided to drag your unconscious ass back home. No two ways about it, kid.” He smiled, enjoying the look on Alexander’s face a little too much. Seeing him all worked up was… endearing, to say the least. And he couldn't even remember the last time they'd had a conversation that wasn't work related. “Just face the fact that for once in your life, you needed me.”

That stopped Alexander right in his tracks, and for a second he lost his voice. He broke eye contact and felt a bit of nervousness set in. Maybe that version of the story was an exaggeration, but that part felt too true.

He _needed_ him. That's… new.

Noticing the uncomfortable silence, Thomas wondered if he’d taken it too far. It was obvious enough that he was joking, wasn’t it? And… Alexander worked in politics. He needed to have thick skin. Some silly taunts shouldn’t upset him too much… He frowned and opened his mouth again to fill the space in the conversation, uneasy with how Alexander’s expression had changed.

“… Anyway— just… bear with needing me a little longer, because I think the food should be done. I’ll be right back.” He got up and turned to leave. “And don't even think of getting out of bed!”

Alexander shot him a look on his way out, but it came out halfhearted at best.

He hated being dependent on people more than anything. Sometimes he didn't even let Eliza take care of him. Growing up alone turned him a little cold to caretaking, but for some reason, he didn't feel as bothered when it was Thomas. Maybe it was because he felt like Thomas owed him something. That’s the explanation that felt the most comfortable to him.

Once he was sure Thomas was out of sight and earshot, he blew his nose into one of the handkerchiefs lying around on the bed and relaxed snugly into the pillows. He had planned on waiting for his host to return, even planning what kind of insult he’d shoot at him upon entrance through the bedroom door, but after he wasn't back in about fifteen minutes, Alexander felt compelled to get up and go find him. His fevered perception of time easily stretched those fifteen minutes into what felt like a very hazy half-hour, and for some reason, he felt uneasy to be left alone.

Strangely enough, he was used to illness being a solitary activity: the times in his life where there was someone he trusted enough to rely on were sparse, and almost always out of necessity. Maybe the issue was just too touchy for him to share with another person. The addition of company, however much he craved it, made him feel like the situation was more dire than it was; something about being spoken to in a sweet voice and spoonfed his meals and medicine always gave him the impression he was going to die.

And yet he still found himself getting out of bed in search of his impossibly smug, full-of-shit caretaker…

He was shaky on his feet as he got up, and standing too fast scrambled his thoughts to the point of dizziness. All this because he was wondering what was taking Thomas so long. Once his mind cleared a bit, he decided with some amount of conviction that he would go downstairs and meet him in the kitchen.

He peered down the hall, easily and immediately getting distracted by the wall art, the different rooms, the furniture— suddenly, ‘finding the kitchen’ meant ‘exploring the entire second floor of Thomas’ house.’ It wasn't very long before he found himself standing in the doorway of a grand bedroom.

Nothing inside the room seemed much more luxurious than the guest room, and it was only slightly larger. He stepped in to look around, when—

“You're actually ridiculous.”

Thomas stared at Alexander until their eyes met and let himself enjoy the childish sort of ‘caught’ look on Alex’s face a bit too much, feeling a slight blush rise to his cheeks.

“You couldn't wait like, two damn minutes for me to get back here with food for you? It seems like New Yorkers are always _doing_ something—would it be so agonizing for you to just… wait?” He made it a point to sound a little biting, since he felt awkwardly glad to be in Alex’s company again and did _not_ want him to pick up on that.

“I think that would kill me first,” Alexander replied almost instantly. “… I mean, before illness does.”

“Well what about before _I_ do?” Thomas set the tray of food down on the bed inside the room, then sat down. “I swear, I’m gonna teach you to relax before you go back to work even if it kills one or both of us. Now eat.”

Thomas pushed the tray of food to Alex. On it was a bowl of broth with a bunch of pasta spirals and diced vegetables, a cup of steamy black tea, and a piece of fresh bread with butter.

Alex shrunk under the generosity and fiddled with the buttons on his—no, Thomas’, actually—loose shirt. He stole a glance at the bedroom mirror and internally cringed at how flushed he looked. It was the fever… totally just fever.

“So… did you make this, or a slave?” he asked, though his voice lacked bitterness about the issue. He was almost certain that Thomas cooked this himself; he had no real way of knowing, but the manner in which Thomas presented the food seemed too honest and down to earth for it to be someone else's work. Alex knew this, but asked anyway so that he could take the focus off of Thomas’ generosity.

“You're being rude. I think you mean, ‘Thank you for the lovely homemade meal, Thomas!’ to which I reply, ‘You're absolutely welcome, Alexander; it's my pleasure.’ Right?” Thomas rolled his eyes at him, though it seemed more playful than anything at this point.

Alex rolled his eyes at the sarcasm and decided to look down into the food rather than at Thomas’ face. He took a tentative bite out of the bread and sipped from the bowl of soup and felt his insides turn warm as he swallowed. He immediately wanted to finish all the food, hungry for more of that warm, wholesome feeling, but paused.

“… Thanks,” he said, much too quietly, like the word and the honesty felt awkward in his mouth. “I mean— if you actually cooked this, it's… really good.”

“Alex, I promise you there isn't a noodle in that soup that wasn't shaped by these two hands. Cooking is like a hobby for me.” He held up his hands and waved them as a little gesture. “I can do more than write bills, you know—”

“You can't write bills.”

“Shut it. I mean I can do more than sit on my ass and work all the time. Politics is just a small, nearly insignificant portion of my life.” Okay, that was an exaggeration, but still. “I like to do things for _fun_. Ever heard of it?”

“I can have fun. I write—”

“—essays about political philosophy. Thrilling.”

“It is! This is the foundation of our nation we're talking about—”

“‘Our nation’ is all work, work, and more work. And like, your writing isn't even good, so there's basically no point.”

“Oh my god, don't even—”

“Hey, did they ask you to write the Declaration of Independence?”

“That doesn't mean anything! I could've done it—”

“And what? Win the war by putting the British to sleep?”

Alexander was about to reply with something equally snarky when he turned away to cough a few times into his fist. His chest hurt from the effort and a bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, reminding Thomas that Alex was still sick, and probably feeling like utter shit.

He felt slightly guilty for teasing him, and touched his forehead without thinking, keeping his hand there a second too long.

“Here—” He grabbed the mug of tea and held it to Alexander’s mouth, like it would distract him from the concerned moment they shared.

He greedily swallowed down a few sips, throat sore and dehydrated, then pulled away and breathed slowly. He had a vague, dull ache all over him and suddenly the thought of Thomas’ hands rubbing his back and giving him a massage crossed his mind, and he immediately wanted to die.

“… You good?”

Thomas’ voice snapped him out of his mental wandering and he nodded quickly without speaking.

“You look a little…” What was the word? “…embarrassed?”

That made Alex want to die even more.

“I’m— I must just be tired,” he said, stumbling on his words. He quickly and silently finished as much of the food as he could, then set the tray aside and stood up. “I should go.”

“Like go home? Or go back to bed?” Thomas stood, reaching his hand out to grab Alex’s shoulder, subconsciously trying to steady him. He really, really didn't want him to leave. He didn't trust him on his own. What if his fever returned and he became delirious again? Or dehydrated? Or frightened? He tried to settle the protective urge in his stomach.

Honestly, though, Alex had no idea where he was planning to go; he just knew he didn't want to be sitting across from a touchy, affectionate Jefferson with a fever that lowered his inhibitions and verbal filter. That was a recipe for disaster…

He was about to make something up when both of them turned their attention to the sound of a servant letting someone in through the front door.

“Thomas?”

Alexander and Thomas stared at one another, both at a loss for words. Then Alex opened his mouth to speak, only to be shushed silent again by the voice downstairs.

“Thomas, are you home?”

Thomas was going to have a heart attack.

Alexander Hamilton and James Madison were in his house. At the same time. Great. Fantastic.

He took a deep breath and sighed, trying to assess his options, then looked at Alex in his pajamas and bedhead and facepalmed.

“Oh my god, we are literally going to die today.”

Alexander nodded in full agreement.

At least, they both thought, Alex didn't have to go home just yet. He couldn't now, even if he actually wanted to; though they were silently relieved that the decision was taken out of their hands and they got to stay together a bit longer.


	5. In the Closet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really fun to write lol. There's a bit of Jeff/Mads fluff in there in addition to the Jeff/Ham, so if you don't like that ship, I'm sorry? It's really just for this chapter, though. And if you do like that ship, then that's cool. 
> 
> Also, there is quite a bit of pining toward the end. Lots of pining. Someone's got a crush, haha. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, commenting, and supporting this fic! You guys are the sweetest.

Madison’s footsteps were gradually increasing in volume as he came up the stairs. 

Okay, so now they were in panic mode.

“Why did you invite him here while I was here? Was all of this just so you two could make fun of me?” Alex spat in a hushed whisper. He meant to sound accusatory and sour, but the genuine hurt in his voice was almost too obvious. And he was just beginning to get used to Jefferson's company… not to mention the fact that he still felt awful. Now he felt like a hot mess emotionally  _ and  _ physically. 

“Ugh, no, why would I—” Thomas was in the middle of rolling his eyes, then was cut off by the sound of closer footsteps. He glanced quickly between Alexander and the doorway that James Madison was soon to be standing in and made a hasty, probably regrettable decision. 

“Just… go in here—” He urgently ushered Alex into his bedroom closet as he heard Madison reach the upper floor. “And I didn't invite him, you idiot!” he whispered as he shut him in, obscured from view just in time. 

“Oh, here you are,” James said as he poked his head into the doorway. “You should really answer when people call your name—” He cut himself off mid-thought, then gave Thomas a once-over. “Uh… are you alright?”

“What?” The question caught him off-guard, since it felt like he'd been asking Hamilton that question all day, or at least wondering it. Now he was the one being worried about, which might have felt nice if the circumstances were a little bit different. He eyed his closet for a second and then returned his gaze to his friend. “Yeah— uh, why do you ask?”

“You just seemed a little out of sorts… There’s also soup and tea on the bed. Do you feel ill? Do you think you might have caught something from Hamilton?” James stepped forward, standing close to Thomas since, as far as he knew, they were alone. He touched his friend’s cheek to check for a fever.

No fever of course, but Thomas did feel an awkward warmth rise to his face. He silently prayed that his closet was soundproof, because the last thing he needed was Alexander commenting on his and James’… friendship. Yeah, that was one word for it. 

“Oh, me? No, not at all—” He pulled James’ hand away from his face, then held it for a few moments. “This is just… lunch. But I was finished with it anyway—” He quickly called a servant into the room to take the tray since he didn't want to answer any more questions about it. 

Alex frowned with his ear pressed up against the closet door as he heard the tray being taken away. He had planned on at least finishing his tea… 

James smiled a little. 

“Well, that's good. You were barely around him, anyway.” He took a seat on the bed, then invited Thomas to sit down as well.

“Right…” It’s not like he was sitting in that exact bed two minutes ago, or something. He sat down beside him and checked to see that the closet door was fully shut, then leaned into his friend's shoulder and closed his eyes, finally relaxing for what felt like the first time all day. All he had to do was ignore the fact that Hamilton was a few feet away in the same room. “What are you doing here, anyway? It's pretty unlike you to turn up uninvited.” 

“I meant to speak to you after today's Congressional meeting, but it slipped my mind with how abruptly it ended. You and Hamilton both left the meeting room in a hurry, so I didn't get a chance to see either of you out.” He wrapped an arm around Thomas and pulled him a bit closer. “Speaking of which, have you heard from him at all? I wonder how he's holding up, seeing as his whole family is on holiday.” 

Alex huffed a little to himself. Did all of Congress know about his family’s vacation plans? Probably, he reasoned, considering the fact that they spread gossip like a bunch of middle school children. 

“Speak to him? Nah, not after the meeting ended…” He resisted the urge to look at the closet door for the millionth time. “I’m sure he's doing fine, though. The kid probably has someone looking out for him even without the wife around.” 

“I bet it’s Washington. He did seem very preoccupied with concern during the meeting.”

“Maybe.” 

Alex smiled. Thomas was a good liar; his confidence bled into his tone and body language, which was good for the both of them right now. He felt almost like they were working together, like they were both in on some grand secret which was imperative to keep. The slight rush of adrenaline from listening in on the private conversation was almost enough to distract him from how sore and dizzy he felt from standing for so long, cramped in the stuffy closet. 

“Anyway, enough on Hamilton. We’ll see how he’s fairing soon enough when Congress is next in session,” James said.

Or sooner than that, thought Thomas briefly. 

“I wanted to run these drafts by you; it was difficult making out his argument during the meeting today, but I managed to piece together some notes and potential scenarios and rebuttals,” he continued, pulling some folded papers from his coat pocket. 

“We get the day off and this how you spend it?” Thomas smiled, leafing through the notes without really giving it much thought. “Yeah, I’ll look at it whenever. Is that all you came here for?”

“Well, that, and to see you.”

Whoops. This was probably the point in the conversation where Alex was supposed to tune out… but like Thomas said earlier, New Yorkers didn’t know anything about being polite. He coughed quietly, feeling a little feverish and out of breath. Was that just from being in the closet, or was he actually feeling worse? He wiped a bit of sweat off his brow. 

Thomas heard the faint cough and felt a small pang of anxiety (or maybe just guilt and worry, though he wouldn't say it), then waited a second to see if Madison would notice it as well. He exhaled, relieved, when he didn’t. 

“We see each other all the time.” He intertwined their fingers, then gave his hand a squeeze. 

“That's true, but we don't get to be alone like this… You seem a little preoccupied; are you sure you’re alright? Did something happen?” James furrowed his brow. 

“I guess I’m just kind of thinking about— Hamilton? He seemed pretty out of it. I mean— when I saw him leaving.” The memory of the whole afternoon came to mind, and he wanted to kick himself for blushing. Now it was more like both he  _ and  _ Alex were ‘in the closet,’ so to speak… 

“Still? I’m sure he’s alright. The concern is strange, though, considering the fact that your relationship with him is… tense. You don’t seem like the caretaker type, generally.” 

Alex would have snickered at the irony if he didn’t feel so crummy. In fact, he was really only half-listening, now, allowing most of the details in the conversation to go over his head. Did Thomas just openly admit that he was worried about him, or was he just imagining that? He felt his heart pound in his chest, flustered at being worried about, especially by Jefferson… Maybe this was just delirium, though, and he shouldn't dwell on it. In any case, it slipped from his mind soon enough as he began to focus more on his physical condition. 

He wanted to find some way to sit down, but he had a feeling that would make too much noise. He coughed, not as quietly as the first time, feeling a bit detached from his surroundings. He finally just gave up and fell into a heap of folded sheets, hoping that Thomas wouldn't mind the wrinkles in them later. 

Thomas stiffened at the rustling coming from behind the closet door, feeling his mood drop as he realized how awful Alexander must have been feeling.

“Uh… you're right, I’m not. I should probably just get some work done to keep my mind off it— I’ll read your notes,” he said, standing up suddenly. He was enjoying his time with Madison, of course… but he had more important things to attend to for now. “You should really be getting home anyway; we wouldn't want anyone uh, wondering where we are—”

“Ah, I guess you have a point…” James knew he didn't really have a point at all, but something was bothering him, and he figured it would be best not to push it. He stood as well and put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “But seriously, you can tell me anything, okay? I mean that.”

Jefferson nodded, touched by the sincerity of the offer, but he figured ‘anything’ didn’t exactly mean, “I think I’m developing a crush on that guy that we both mutually hate to bits, and by the way, did you know he’s also in my closet as we speak and has probably been listening to us this whole time?” 

“Yeah… thanks,” he said after a slight pause, then took Madison’s hand and gave it a light squeeze before walking with him downstairs, politely seeing him on his way. He then proceeded to sprint up the stairs and into his bedroom, out of breath by the time he got there. 

He tore open the closet door, feeling his heart sink at how sickly Alexander looked— he was just about as crumpled as the clothing he was surrounded by. He swallowed uneasily, feeling like he had made a mistake by locking him in there. He inwardly scolded himself for not coming up with some better plan. A closet? Seriously? Ugh… 

“Hey… you okay?” he asked, extending a hand to help him stand up. No jokes, no insults, no sarcastic wit… He surprised even himself at how genuine he sounded. 

Alexander stared up at him, speechless as they locked eye contact. He felt his cheeks grow warm and red with blush… and why was he feeling so lightheaded all of a sudden? He wanted to speak, but his mouth felt dry. There was something different about Thomas’ expression; this was more earnest and kind-hearted than he had ever seen him before, and he was completely at a loss for how to respond. 

Feeling his heart race a little too fast, he quickly looked to the side so he wouldn’t have to see his face any longer. 

“I’m—” he began to answer, but was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Ugh, he felt like such a hot mess— literally and figuratively. Jefferson always looked so  _ perfect _ ; he looked confident, and strong, and capable, and— and attractive…? And then there he was: choking in sweaty pajamas with a bad case of bedhead while sitting in a pile of laundry in the closet. 

Thomas knelt so they were at eye-level, frowning as he waited for the fit to settle down. Once Alex seemed alright for the most part, he once again offered him a hand to help him out of the closet.

“Let’s grab you a fresh cup of tea and call it an afternoon,” he said, helping Alexander into his bed, not even caring that this was his own mattress and not the guest room. He laid the blanket over him and disappeared from the room, presumably to go brew some tea, which gave Hamilton a good few minutes to himself.

He clutched the blanket tightly in his hands, biting his lip. Oh god, he was in Jefferson’s bed. Lying in it. His heart felt like it would explode. Who would have thought this was how his day would turn out?  

This kind of nervousness was different from that morning in Congress. That morning, he felt anxious and jealous, bitter that Thomas could handle himself with such grace and confidence in front of their coworkers; he was humiliated at his vulnerability and incompetence during the meeting, his obvious exhaustion, his inability to get his thoughts across properly. 

Now? He just felt like he wanted to kiss him.

He covered his face with the pillow and wanted to scream. He might have, if he even had the voice to do it. He was really in for it, wasn’t he?


End file.
